Freaks
by Grace Raven
Summary: Police!AU "Hey, Mister, can I ask you something?" "Sure, squirt, what is it?" "What's it like to be a freak?" Little kids don't know sarcasm, so everything they say is absolutely true and hurts even more. Involves OCD and police!rookie!Alfred.


DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia: World Series.

**Freaks**

WARNING: Two curse words, slightly OCD and obviously insecure Alfred, a calm and collected Arthur, writing that was done while having a headache and written in a little over an hour, POLICE.

They had to line up perfectly with each other. _They __had to be_. No exceptions.

"Alfred."

It was a tense, terse statement that sent Alfred backwards with a jolt and caused the pens he was meticulously lining up (the pens had to be spaced evenly apart and had to meet up _perfectly _at the imaginary line on the desk) to be sent into disarray. His gloved hand twitched, wanting nothing more than to straighten up the scrambled pens, but the glare he was receiving from his commanding officer was enough to divert his attention, even though the ocean blue pens were calling for him to at least turn them so that they were all _straight _and _not _turned every which way.

"Y-yes sir?" Alfred stuttered out, trying his best to keep his eyes firmly placed on his superior's meadow green eyes and desperately needed to be shaved eyebrows.

"Just _what _are you doing?" Arthur Kirkland, Alfred's commanding officer, demanded, keeping a steady gaze on the rookie.

"J-just playing with the pens," the nervous rookie answered, now glaring at the leather gloves that covered his hands and, more importantly, his nails. Oh, how he desperately wanted to chew on his nails. It was a nervous tick that drove Officer Kirkland insane, but he felt like he _needed _to do it.

Kirkland sighed, deciding to go easy on his ADHD prone rookie. "Jack needs one of those pens to fill out a couple hundred forms, but we couldn't find a single one. Next time you need something to place your OCD tendencies on, I suggest not taking all the pens, or whatever object you find, to fulfill your strange desires."

Alfred nodded tensely, handing Arthur one of the ink-filled writing utensils before sitting down in front of the desk to rearrange the mess on the table-top. He heard Kirkland's irritated grumble and bid him a polite and respectful (in his book) goodbye, not once looking up from his all-important work and noticing the faintest hint of worry in his superior's eyes. Alfred almost looked up, though, when he heard no indication of Kirkland leaving, but then Kirkland stomped out of the cramped room, mumbling about some unimportant matter that didn't worry Alfred in the slightest.

It wasn't until the door closed with a firm '_click_' did Alfred finally allow his shoulders to slump. His upper back muscles always, without fail, constricted to a tight flex when Artie (as he had so warmly dubbed Kirkland) entered the same room as he. The police man was a frightening presence, even if he was shorter than every other policeman in the department (minus his twin, Jack, and his younger brothers, Peter and Aaron). He had an air about him that whispered maliciously _'fuck with me and I'll send you to an early grave_'. It wasn't as frightening as the aura that surrounded Ivan from the Purple Police, a squad that Alfred had the displeasure of meeting on his first day. Though coming to know the ice-like beauty Natalia was quite a delight—a beautiful woman was like sun after a five-day rain, but Ivan still struck fear in his all-American heart.

As he worked, all obsessive traits in his body functioning at their fullest, he began humming some song that had been playing on the radio that morning—it had been sandwiched between a depressing song about breaking-up with a lover and a frighteningly catchy song about death, so it had managed to find itself replaying in Alfred's mind. So distracted by the song and his near-complete job, he did not notice the presence of a young boy entering the room until the child was leaning against the table, his arms folded on the surface and his blue eyes concentrating on Alfred's hands.

Alfred blinked, staring at the boy. "Hey, little guy, what are you doing here?" It was Peter Kirkland, Arthur's youngest brother, who was (self) proclaimed to be from the nation of Sealand. When first meeting the boy, Alfred had thought he meant to say SeaWorld and had jokingly asked Arthur how the child had been raised in a theme park. Arthur had blinked at him a grand total of three times before writing the trainee as the dumbest person alive in his mental manual of all the people he knew.

"Waiting for Sean to drive me to Boy Scouts!" Peter exclaimed cheerily, giving Alfred the brightest smile a six-year-old could manage.

"That sounds fun," Alfred stated, ruffling the kid's hair, listening in bliss as the child giggled. He personally loved kids, a trait that his "friend" Miguel—a tanned man and chain-smoker from Cuba—had laughed at him for three whole minutes before Alfred's brother, Matthew, had supplied that he, too, loved kids.

"It is! I love coming here and waiting for big brother Sean! I get free doughnuts and once some guy gave me a lollipop! Isn't that cool?"

"_Very _cool. Lollipops are awesome." Alfred preferred milk chocolate to lollipops any day, but he wasn't about to tell that to a little kid obsessed with lollipops and things of a colourful nature.

Peter giggled again before increasing his height slightly by standing on his tip-toes. Alfred glanced at the child, reaching out to set Peter's favourite sailor hat back on his head—it had fallen next to his feet at some point—then returning to the pens. Peter watched him curiously, false wonderment clouding his sea-blue orbs. His mouth was set in a thin line, a feature he guessed the child had learned from Arthur and an attribute that meant he was thinking something over, that thought not being of the best nature.

"Hey, Mister, can I ask you something?" Alfred almost snorted at the cockney accent that bled through after the word "hey". Peter was like a miniature Arthur in that sense—both had prominent English accents, but at times they spoke with a number of accents from all around the UK. Not that Alfred was one to talk—he had a tendency to speak with a certain accent from America depending on how he felt.

"Sure, squirt, what is it?"

"What's it like being a freak?"

Alfred froze, the pen in his hand falling to the floor tile. His eye twitched and he stood up with an unnecessary amount of force as it caused the table to be moved quickly and almost throw Peter to the ground. "Huh? What'd I say?" he heard Peter ask, but he ignored the brat. He grabbed his cherished bomber jacket from the coat rack and clutched it tightly to his chest. He stormed past every officer of the Pink Police, pretending to ignore their questions and stares of worry. He stomped through the front office, past Sean with car keys, an amused Michael with more papers for the irked and hard-working Jack, and a startled Arthur, the last of whom immediately started yelling at the rookie.

"Alfred! You're not allowed to leave without my permission! Alfred Franklin Jones, return here right now!" Arthur shouted, much like a mother would to a child, but went unheard as the American pushed open the glass door and ran down the steps outside, sliding on his bomber jacket as he moved. Arthur groaned, chasing after his rookie.

Alfred knew Arthur was following him, but he only gave the Brit a chase, turning every sharp corner he could find and sprinting until his breath ran out and he collapsed against a building's brick wall. Arthur caught up to him, sweating but still with a good amount of air filling his lungs. He placed his hands on his hips, pacing back and forth in front of Alfred until his breathing rate slowed down to a normal pace.

"You know, it's quite unhealthy for you to simply sit against a wall after running like that. You have to walk around until your heart rate slows down," Arthur began, staring down at his rookie in a non-condescending manner.

Alfred simply glared. It was an un-professional action, but he was past the point of caring. He simply wanted to be by himself so he could tiredly think out his conflicting emotions of hurt and anger, then calmly walk back to the Pink Police and never look at Peter in the eyes ever again.

Arthur sighed, crouching down in front of the trainee. "Look, I don't know what happened, but you shouldn't walk away like that. I know you're only nineteen, but that's no excuse for disobeying your superior's command. If I was any other person and you weren't a policeman in training, you would've been fired." Arthur moved over to Alfred and rested his back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting next to the younger man. "Whatever Peter said…you shouldn't take it so personally. He's only six, you know."

"Being called a freak doesn't hurt any less coming from a brat," Alfred whispered hoarsely. His vocal cords had already tightened and he could feel traces of tears lining his eyelids. Arthur said nothing, merely placing a comforting hand on the American's shoulder for a bit, then removing it cautiously.

There was a beat of silence in which Alfred felt Arthur's eyes studying him for any signs of a breakdown before the elder spoke. "Peter just isn't…_used _to people l-like you. I mean! He has ADHD like you do, also, b-but…it's just not as…_bad_ as yours is…" Alfred almost chuckled; the Brit was absolutely horrible with pep talks and comforting anyone, but that was something Alfred liked about him the most. The stuttering was a nice change to the glossed over and repeated words of comfort always given to him after his disorder got to its strongest and he was ridiculed for it. It was the only thing he resented about his parents and brother, really.

"Just don't try, Artie." He actually _did _chuckle when Arthur slapped him on the back of his head. "You're no good at it, anyway."

The Brit _'humphed'_, crossing his arms and sticking his nose in the air in an arrogant manner that almost made Alfred hug him as though he was family. But then he remembered that Arthur was his commanding officer and that hugging him—even though they were already acting like they were the best of friends—would probably result in him losing all chance of ever becoming a policeman.

"Just return to the base and we'll forget this ever happened. I'll reprimand Peter at home and make him apologize to you first thing tomorrow morning. Sound good?" Alfred nodded, a smile hiking up his face. "And then we'll act like none of this sentimental crap ever happened for the rest of our professional lives. That a good plan?"

"It's perfect."

"Good. Now, c'mon. We should leave before Michael spreads word about this to Francis and we'll never hear the end of it."

Alfred laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes in a surreptitious manner and standing up clumsily. Arthur grabbed his upper arm and pulled him along, the hand moving down to his wrist but never the hand. Alfred shook him off, placing his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. The two returned in near silence, once in awhile cracking small jokes or pointing out random things that were nowhere near interesting but something to talk about.

Seven years from now, the duo would talk about this day over dinner at some fancy restaurant suggested by the younger and begrudgingly accepted by the older. The Brit would laugh at the actions of his youngest brother and the American would nervously admit he thought about Peter's words when feeling down. Kirkland would stroke his thumbs across Jones' knuckles in a comforting manner. Alfred would blush at the action and duck his head, and Arthur would smirk at his embarrassed reaction.

_Fin._

**Grace Raven: **Thought I'd clear up some things for everybody not familiar with ADHD (which, yes Alfred has in this story. Severely, in fact). A person with ADHD had random outburst of hyperactivity and lack of attention skills. They are given medication that helps them pay attention but while on the medication, when they have nothing to pay attention to, they will begin a habit that can be mistaken for a nervous habit. In my and probably other peoples' cases, this habit is biting their nails. I made biting nails a nervous habit for Alfred, but instead he chews at either his gloves or shirt sleeve when he has nothing to pay attention to.

Also, for those confused by Alfred's OCD in the beginning: that was an action from having ADHD. People with ADHD exhibit _signs _of OCD but don't have any of the symptoms. Really. I should know.

If you're wondering, Sean is Scotland, Michael is Ireland, Jack is Wales, and Aaron is Northern Ireland.

Anyway, this is another oneshot from my police!AU. If you read _These Police Shouldn't Qualify in Real Life_, you would know what I'm talking about. This AU is set before Alfred joined the Blue Police, serving instead under Arthur in the Pink Police. In my AU (in modern times) most of the cast are either apart of the Color Police, the Normal Police, dead, or in a different occupation (writer, teacher, etc.). Anyway, the city everyone lives in is suddenly placed under attack from a mysterious gang. One person from the Color Police is apart of the gang, but nobody knows which one. Every policeman in the story fights against the gang, making multiple blunders along the way and some other stuff you'll find out if you read it.

In case you're wondering, this is everyone's role in the Police:

Blue Police – America, Canada, Cuba

Pink Police – England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland

Red Police – Spain

Green Police – Romano and Veneziano

Gray Police – Germany, Prussia, Austria

Purple Police – Russia, Belarus, Estonia, Latvia

White Police – France

Black Police – Japan

Yellow Police – China

Normal Police – Denmark, Norway, Finland, Sweden, Iceland

And that's about it :\ I have certain plot points written out in a document, but I haven't completed it. I'm excited to write it, seeing as it'll be completely different from _It's Like a Reality Show, but Really Not._

Before I leave, I just want to clear somethin' up: America isn't attracted to Belarus, he was simply admiring that she was beautiful. His attraction is platonic, really.


End file.
